Don’t Ask By Bernie Hafeli Before Randy saw the car he’d been watching the sun skitter across the lake as if thousands of silver-finned fish swam just below surface, bouncing back light. The radio was tuned to WAPB. Marlene’s play list alternated between small combo swing and dinner jazz, like it was still 1955 when the two-lane blacktop he currently traveled would have still been dirt, oil and gravel. A sad, blowsy song swayed leisurely to its close and Randy was surprised to hear the sax player identified as John Coltrane, whose music would later explode with such turbulence. It was funny how Coltrane’s search for inner peace manifested outwardly in stormy improvisation. That’s what Randy was thinking when he came upon the car, which was off on the shoulder, its nose nudged into the bushes like a large dog tracking a scent. Randy stopped the truck. Near the car was a path angling down to the water and a little boy was running toward it. A woman trailed in pursuit. By the time Randy got out of his truck both the boy and woman had disappeared. Randy walked over to the car. Despite being buried in the foliage, everything seemed intact. It hadn’t hit anything of consequence. Stooping down to investigate the front axle, he heard footsteps whumping back up the path. “Mom! There’s a man!”
The boy was Asian, about seven or eight, and the woman held him by the hand. He looked at Randy with the wide-eyed fascination of a child who doesn’t encounter grown men often. The woman was Caucasian and watching him warily, as if he might bite or begin talking about Jesus at any moment.
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Transcript
Don’t Ask By Bernie Hafeli
Before Randy saw the car he’d been watching the sun skitter
across the lake as if thousands of silver-finned fish swam just below
surface, bouncing back light. The radio was tuned to WAPB.
Marlene’s play list alternated between small combo swing and
dinner jazz, like it was still 1955 when the two-lane blacktop he
currently traveled would have still been dirt, oil and gravel. A sad,
blowsy song swayed leisurely to its close and Randy was surprised
to hear the sax player identified as John Coltrane, whose music
would later explode with such turbulence. It was funny how
Coltrane’s search for inner peace manifested outwardly in stormy
improvisation. That’s what Randy was thinking when he came
upon the car, which was off on the shoulder, its nose nudged into
the bushes like a large dog tracking a scent.
Randy stopped the truck. Near the car was a path angling
down to the water and a little boy was running toward it. A woman
trailed in pursuit. By the time Randy got out of his truck both the
boy and woman had disappeared. Randy walked over to the car.
Despite being buried in the foliage, everything seemed intact. It
hadn’t hit anything of consequence. Stooping down to investigate
the front axle, he heard footsteps whumping back up the path.
“Mom! There’s a man!”
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Randy turned and straightened up. The boy was Asian,
about seven or eight, and the woman held him by the hand. He
looked at Randy with the wide-eyed fascination of a child who
doesn’t encounter grown men often. The woman was Caucasian
and watching him warily, as if he might bite or begin talking about
Jesus at any moment.
“Looks like you had a little accident,” he said.
She lifted her chin and looked beyond him at the car.
“Is it alright?” she asked.
“Seems to be. Only next time you go off-roading, I’d suggest
something with four-wheel drive.”
He gave her the most neighborly, non-threatening smile he
could muster. She was pretty, Randy decided—thin, with the
athletic build of a runner or bike rider. She had rust-colored hair
that rippled in the lake breeze.
“Thanks for stopping,” she said. “Some raccoons ran across
the road. I swerved to miss them.”
Her eyes were the blue-green of Navajo jewelry.
“They ran that way!” the child yelled, pointing to the path.
“Raccoons!”
He grinned like it was Christmas morning then ran up to
Randy.
“Let’s go find ‘em,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “My name is Deirdre. That’s
Harvey.”
Randy knelt down and held out his hand, palm up.
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3
“Gimme five, Harvey.”
Harvey slapped down hard.
“Ow!” Randy said, shaking his hand. “You’re a strong kid,
Harvey. You’ve been eating your broccoli.”
“Yuck,” Harvey said and made a face.
Randy turned to Deirdre. “My name is Randy,” he said. “I
was on my way to work and saw your car here. I work up the road
at the radio station.”
“The radio station? Are you a deejay?”
“Six to midnight,” Randy said, “holidays excluded. Maybe you
could give a listen sometime. I take requests.”
The swamp fog of “Sea of Love” segued into “Sea Cruise,” the
Huey “Piano” Smith original. Following that would be “La Mer” by
Charles Trenét, then “Baïlèro” by Frederica Von Stade. Randy liked
to mix things up—rock, jazz, country, blues, classical, but there
needed to be a thread. Each song had to flow organically from what
came before, whether due to similarity of title or lyrical theme, a
common performer or songwriter, a shared rhythm or beat,
emphasis on a particular instrument, there needed to be a reason
for the song’s inclusion, even if it was discernible only to Randy.
Sometimes his life seemed to play out in the same fashion. If he
just looked deeply enough, he could find a string that tied one
seemingly random event to another. This could go on for years
until something wholly unexpected severed the line, something
from deep left field that knocked him upside the head and sent him
Don’t Ask
4
sprawling in the dirt, whose only message was that there was no
message, that everything was arbitrary.
One reason Randy liked his job was that he never had to
engage very long in any one line of thinking. There was always the
next song to get ready, the next lyric to take him in a different,
perhaps more promising direction. Although that night he found
his thoughts returning again and again to the same well-worn path,
the one leading to Deirdre. It wasn’t his nature to ask strangers for
their phone numbers, but that’s what he’d done. And she’d given it
to him! Who knew why? Perhaps because of the chord he seemed
to strike with Harvey, her kid, who looked nothing like her. In any
case, Randy felt better than he had in weeks. He was practically
happy. So good did he feel that he found room for several
musicians who didn’t usually make the play list: Louis Prima,
Raymond Scott, the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band. He even played
“Rocky Raccoon,” which he dedicated to Deirdre.
There was something about her. She made his hormones
quiver. Since he’d left Detroit, he rarely made the first move with a
woman. Usually she had to show some interest, however minimal,
before he asked for a date. After his first marriage ended, thanks to
his rat-bastard brother Harry, his relationships had been of the
spider-fly variety, where he feigned disinterest while setting subtle
traps that, once triggered, led to the capture and cocooning of the
desired prey. They weren’t relationships so much as hostage
situations, which his partners only realized over time, and he’d had
one everywhere he went—Chicago, Albuquerque, Providence, here.
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Even his second marriage had begun in this manner, though the
births of Jeffrey and Jack changed that, by planting in Randy a love
that stunned him with its ardor, not just for his twin sons but for
their mother, Meredith, who’d made it all possible, and beyond
that, in diminishing degrees, to his few friends, his family (even
Harry), his coworkers, the postman, the pizza guy, pretty much all
mankind. It hade been an idyllic time, too good to last, but a gift
during the years that it did.
Deirdre was in charge of promotions for the Wisconsin
Timber Rattlers, the Class A affiliate of the Seattle Mariners. It was
her task to fill the stands with fans when the Peoria Chiefs, Beloit
Snappers, and Quad City River Bandits came to Appleton to take on
the Rattlers. Her background was advertising—she’d worked for a
large firm back in New York—but the real reason she landed the job
was that her uncle owned the team.
Every morning, after dropping Harvey at her cousin
Bridget’s, she would closet herself in her aluminum trailer of an
office abutting the ballpark and get down to business. For an
upcoming visit by the River Bandits, she was putting the finishing
touches on Crime & Punishment Night. Anyone who came to the
game dressed as a criminal or law enforcement official would get in
for half price—“A steal!” the radio ad proclaimed. Every time
someone swiped a base, a free drink could be had with the purchase
of a bratwurst. If anyone stole home, ticket holders were entitled to
a free pitcher of Dad’s Old Fashioned Root Beer at Corleone Family
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Pizza (limit one per family). A big recent success had been It’s
Your Funeral Night. Deirdre rounded up the local funeral directors
and persuaded them to lop thirty per cent off the price of a casket
and burial, when the time came, for anyone attending the game.
For next season she was already planning Death & Taxes Night, a
joint venture between the morticians and tax consultants.
Since meeting him in early May, she spent most of her lunch
hours with Randy. They’d go to one of the fish-and-chips bars in
Appleton or out to Floyd’s By The Lake, a knotty-pine roadhouse
with big greasy burgers that Randy adored, and rocket-fuel
martinis. They’d sit and watch the water skiers on the lake and talk
about things that had wiggled into their lives—incidents at work,
with Harvey, twists in the recent news, books, movies, the behavior
of amusing locals. However there was one subject that remained
strictly off limits—the past. No one ever said, “Don’t ask” or “It’s
none of your business,” it just never came up. She had her secrets
and was content to let him have his. It was her belief that a little
mystery never hurt—to the contrary it added a sprinkle of spice,
kept things from getting too comfortable.
What evolved as a result was the most agreeable relationship
she’d ever had. Randy was kind, considerate, acceptably worldly
and literate, and had a wicked sense of humor when he chose to let
it out for a romp. Even the sex was decent. While you wouldn’t call
him buff, Randy was in fairly decent shape, easy on the eyes, and
went to great lengths to make sure she had an orgasm, even if she
did fake it half the time.
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But Deirdre’s fascination with Randy was nothing compared
to Harvey’s total absorption. To Harvey, Randy was the dad he
never had. Watching them together, Deirdre got a sense of family,
not in any major, capital-letter way, but briefly glimpsed during the
moments that Randy’s whole body seemed to bend toward her son
like a sunflower stalk when the boy had something to say, or the
way Harvey’s face lit up like tungsten when he caught one of
Randy’s tosses and fired back a strike. If she could just be content
with these little gratifications, she thought, life would be fine.
Their weekends always included Harvey. They’d plan a
picnic on Lake Winnebago or go to the Harry Houdini Museum or
the Paper Industry Hall of Fame. (She had, however, quashed
Randy’s suggestion of visiting the Joe McCarthy Museum and John
Birch Society World Headquarters in the same afternoon—to give
Harvey an idea of what makes this state great, he said. “A joke,” he
later insisted. “Only kidding!”)
Sunday afternoons were reserved for the ballpark. Their
favorite seats were behind the Timber Rattlers’ first base dugout,
where they’d settle in with the Sunday paper and a bag of ham
sandwiches, grease up with sunscreen, and watch the major league
wannabes putting in time in the Midwest League. Occasionally
Uncle Alva, who owned the Rattlers, would sit with them and want
to discuss business.
“So Deirdre, what are you cooking up to entice baseball-
hungry Appletonians?”
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He never knew when she might be putting him on, which
often she was. “Well Alva, I’ve been talking to the paper companies
and the first week in August we’re having Toilet Paper Tuesday.”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
“Nope. Four free rolls of one-ply with every ticket. Or two
rolls of two-ply.”
One Sunday evening after a game, Deirdre and Harvey were
on their back patio watching the lowering sun fuzz the lake with the
hazy hues of a Monet water painting. At least Deirdre was. Harvey
was bouncing a rubber ball off the side of the house and diving to
his left or right to try and catch it, providing his own play-by-play, a
la Rex Snodgrass, the Timber Rattlers’ announcer. Randy had had
to work. The ball spanked against the plaster wall, skittered over
the patio stones and raised wisps of dust with each hop over the dry
ground, followed by a mushroom cloud when Harvey went
sprawling to the ground trying to grab it.
“Harvey, stop that. You’re making dust.”
“I have to practice.”
SPLAT!
“Harvey—”
“Randy said I have to practice.”
SPLAT!
“Harvey!”
SPLAT!
“Okay, Mom!”
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The boy picked himself up and came over to the picnic table
where Deirdre sat. As he walked he bounced the ball on the ground,
raising further dust.
“Mom?”
“Harvey, stop bouncing.”
The bouncing stopped. Deirdre looked at her son. His thick
black hair was chopped off roughly at the same level all around his
head so he looked like Moe of the Three Stooges. She’d have to start
taking him to the barber. His skin was burnished, baked by the sun,
brown as a butternut.
“Is Randy like my real dad was?” Harvey asked.
The question surprised her. She had to hastily reform her
conception of Hideki.
“He is, Harvey. Now that you mention it, he kind of is.”
Over the years, Deirdre had concocted for her son’s benefit
the ideal Japanese father. She only hoped she hadn’t laid it on too
thick, to the point where other men couldn’t measure up.
“Did he like baseball?” Harvey asked.
“He did. Hideki liked baseball a lot. He loved to play
baseball.”
“What position?”
“Hideki was an outfielder.”
“Ichiro!”
“Yes, like Ichiro, only not as good.”
“Ichiro!” Harvey yelled again.
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He threw the ball high in the air and started pounding his
glove, getting ready to make the catch. But the ball landed well
behind him, whacking down in an evergreen thicket. Harvey ran to
retrieve it. Deirdre didn’t like lying to him, heaven knew, but it was
for his own good. She’d even had pictures taken with her friend
Kaz, who played the part of Hideki. Thinking about it now though,
she felt dirty with a tarnish deeper than soot. If only there were a
pool nearby, a miraculous pond in the woods that could wash away
past mistakes. She could use a good long soak.
Disaster was Randy’s first thought when he felt the mattress
quivering—something seismic, the world cracking apart—but it was
only Deirdre jostling him awake.
“Time to go, Randy boy.”
It was 5 a.m. This was their routine. On certain agreed-upon
nights, he’d show up after his shift at the radio station and spend
the night at Deirdre’s. By the time he arrived, Harvey was sleeping
the sleep of the innocents, hands curled as if still in the womb,
knees tucked up near his chin. Randy would open a bottle of wine
while Deirdre talked quietly about her day until, eventually, the lure
of their bodies and the sway of the alcohol led them to Deirdre’s
bed. Randy would be gone by the time Harvey awoke. They both
felt this was best.
Randy padded into the bathroom and trickled water over his
face. It smelled coppery, as if the ore deposits further north had
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leeched into the water supply. Brushing his teeth, he recalled
remnants of the previous night’s conversation. A friend of Deirdre’s
was coming in from New York. But in what context was she a
friend? Had Deirdre said? Randy couldn’t remember. Before he
left, he sat down on the bed and stroked Deirdre’s hair. The sun
had lightened it, not as red as last spring. A smile rippled Deirdre’s
lips. She hadn’t gone entirely back to sleep. He leaned over, kissed
her forehead, kissed her cheek, kissed the tip of her nose.
“I love you,” he said and realized he meant it. No longer
were these just words people said after a few months sharing the
same bed.
Without opening her eyes, she puckered her lips and kissed
the air.
“So your friend will be here this weekend?” Randy said.
“Friday,” she murmured. “When you come Sunday you’ll
meet her.”
“’Til Sunday,” he said. He kissed her again and left.
The sun had just come up, a sultry portent low on the
horizon, when he drove up to his cabin. Instead of burrowing under
the comforter as was his custom after a night at Deirdre’s, he
decided to put on his running things and go for a jog. It was already
getting warm. He followed the usual route—a hard-packed trail
through the woods that eventually connected with the state park
down by the lake. The day’s first birds, the ones that supposedly got
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the worms, were out and a-twitter, darting in and out of his path
like they couldn’t make up their minds where they wanted to be.
The forest smelled fresh and expectant, the sumpy scent of soil still
damp with dew mingling with grass chaff and flower pollen, the
sweet rot of tree bark, the fecund aroma of mushrooms and moss.
It was his favorite time, when the brunt of the day still stretched
before him, unmarked and rife with possibility. Again it came to
him that he was close to being happy, perhaps was already happy,
and that the full measure of happiness might be just up ahead,
around the next bend, waiting for him to jog into its airspace. This
feeling, he knew, was attributable to Deirdre, but also to Harvey—
maybe something could work out for the three of them.
He imagined introducing them to Meredith and Jack.
Harvey was a few years younger than Jack. Would they get along?
What would Deirdre think of Meredith? He’d told Deirdre he was
divorced and that he had a child. But he hadn’t supplied the details,
such as how he and Meredith had shut down emotionally after Jeff’s
death, felt nothing for each other except for occasional pity, how he
sometimes silently blamed Meredith—there’d been more cancer in
her family after all, in his own only a dusting—how he couldn’t relax
around Jack because Jack reminded him of Jeff. He could still see
the two
of them, identical twins in every respect, telling him about the
science project. The teacher had had them prick their fingers for
drops of their own blood, which they examined under microscopes.
Jeff noticed that his blood looked different than the picture in the
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book, the one with the healthy cells. His own cells drooped and had
cloudy spots. He showed the teacher. It was suggested that Jeff be
sent to a specialist to determine the reason for the discrepancy. As
it turned out, Jeff had identified his own leukemia.
Felicia stood out like a speckled jellybean in a tin of snow-
white breath mints—black T-shirt, skin-tight lemon Capri pants,
purple checked tennis shoes, bubblegum-pink hair clipped in a
pixie cut. Deirdre watched her approach, and the heads of airport
visitors turn as if to reconfirm what the friendly skies had dropped
into their midst.
“Hi, Deirie.”
Before Deirdre could protest, Felicia wrapped a thin, fish-
white arm around Deirdre’s neck and kissed her on the lips. Felicia
smelled of recent coffee.
“Jesus, Felicia, back off! This is frigging Wisconsin!”
Felicia moved away and unleashed her gap-toothed smile.
Deirdre felt her resolve melt like a creamsicle on the Fourth of July.
“Good to see you too, Deirie,” Felicia sang. “How’s life among
the moral majority?”
They started for the car. Felicia hadn’t aged at all. If
anything, she looked younger, while Deirdre—as she’d realized
peering into the mirror that morning, modeling her new business
suit for the lunch with the Rotarians—looked a good decade older.